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by Low Bo

"Cannot?" Helena said. "Or will not?"

  Rhys closed his eyes.

  Helena sighed and patted his arm as she rose from her seat. "I cannot force you to do what you feel is wrong," she said. "But ask yourself if the Brother would think it right before you choose to let this child's life be wasted, Rhys. Come, Sister Bredda. We've charities to deliver."

  He stayed where he was, listening to the footsteps of the two women as they closed the door and walked down the broken cobbles. Horns, he thought, covering his face with his hands. It would have been so easy to drink the willow bark tea, lie down and forget this little incident. To pretend that he had never seen Moth or known of her gift. But Helena knew, and would never allow him to live peacefully with himself.

  Helena? he thought. What about my own conscience?

  Yes, he was jealous, and yes, he would give anything to have the gift Moth possessed. But in truth, he could not abandon her to Liam and the dark life of a whore's child.

  Slowly, he rose and climbed the stairs to the room where she had slept. Her blankets were thrown back as though she had come running when Liam and his cronies broke through the door. Briefly, he stared at the rumpled pallet, and then with a sigh he stretched his hand.

  Healer he might claim to be, but it could not change the magic legacy that he so denied. Rhys closed his eyes and stretched mage senses, letting the tendrils of his awareness slip into the very cloth and seek her essence. Everything in the world possessed essence of one sort or another, and human essence was the life force that lived in flesh and bone and blood. He touched the faint woolly essence of the blanket and found Moth's warmth. It shone in his mind's eye like a brilliant flower of silver and gold. The essence of a True Healer.

  He tasted it with his senses and memorized it until he could fix his awareness to any tangible hint of its power. Then quietly, he rose, pulling a plain cloak on over his simple clothes and left the room, following the essence like a hound follows spoor. On the stairs, it was stronger. Not unusual, since she had been frightened, and as he made his way to the ground floor, he sensed the terror in her. She had not wanted to leave with Liam. The brute's essence was there too, dark as Arawn's heart and cold as winter on a mountain. Rhys locked onto it as well, knowing where he found one, he was likely to find the other.

  Rhys picked up his pace and hurried out onto the street. He wind whispered a spell to make the essences sing to him as he followed them. The path was not so straight as it was sure. Liam's pace had been quick, and Moth had been fighting him all the way. Rhys detected the essence of fire. Liam had carried a torch to keep Darklings at bay.

  The path eventually took Rhys into the Quays, the remains of river docks long ago abandoned. The only cargo that came here was of a variety the king would never allow-assuming he knew of it at all. In fact, the sort of men and women who inhabited the Quays made the folks of Broken Wall's darker corners seem right pleasant and charming.

  Here, the streets were muddy and one walked on planks to avoid sinking in the sticky mire. Rhys carefully picked his way along. The stench in the air was enough to take one's breath away, and his stomach heaved in protest as he realized all he had in it was the willow bark tea. Rhys pushed on, trying to ignore the odors and his own queasiness. The temptation to turn back was too strong at the moment.

  No, he would not abandon Moth. He should have taken her straight to the temple the moment he realized what skill she possessed. Instead, he had given into apathy brought on by his jealousy. Who am I to decide that what the Blessed Brother wills is wrong and unfair. Rhys pushed on.

  At last, he found an inn along side an old pier that had once been a thriving port for travelers. Abandoned after the war, it was now a thieves' den. Rhys drew closer, stepping past drunks and whores who stumbled about the narrow boards, having slept off last night's activities. It was a dance to stay out of the muck and the pools left by the river's last spring flood. He managed it though, and still remained focused on the essence of the girl and the man. When he reached the door, he could see broken windows, and smell dirty bodies and badly prepared food and ale that resembled piss water.

  Rhys slipped inside and found a shadow to stand in for a moment. Mage eyes quickly adjusted to the dark, revealing a number of men and women slumbering on the floors. The innkeeper yawned as he put a small effort into wiping the filth off his counter. Rhys whispered a spell to make the man look elsewhere then stretched mage senses again and followed the tangle of Liam and Moth. It led up the stairs and along narrow halls that Rhys followed with caution in every step until he stood before a door.

  There were spells, he was once told by the mageborn who trained him, that could put an entire room of people to sleep. Rhys wished he knew that spell now, but it had been one of those lessons he balked against, not because the spell was useless, but because he had felt the need to rebel at everything that had to do with magic. It had not stopped him from learning what to do with the skill he did possess. But a small part of him wondered if even those skills would be enough.

  Liam would, no doubt, expect trouble. And he would do what he could to stop Rhys from casting spells. Rhys had only to touch the swollen edge of his mouth to know the behemoth had been told precisely how to break a mageborn's concentration. Just my luck!

  Rhys sighed and stretched mage senses. He felt Moth and Liam and three others. The girl's aura indicated that she struggled against whatever Liam had used to bind her. Rhys could tell that the others had only just awakened. He could hear the splatter of urine.

  This was not going to be easy. He would have to do something all-inclusive. Something frightening enough to put them off guard. To distract them so that he and Moth could flee. Hopefully, he would be able to reach some place where he could open a spell gate to the Temple of Diancecht without getting caught or disturbed.

  Fire spells came to mind, but he quickly put those thoughts out of his head. No use in risking a multitude of lives, for the building would likely catch flame like dry tinder.

  Illusions, then. Bend the shadows. Make them look like a Darkling. That might work. He took a deep breath, drew essence from the air, and whispered the words of the spell. Around him, the shadows swarmed and shifted and drew into a hideous form. They became a blanket of darkness with glowing eyes, razor teeth and scrabbling claws. The conjuration was so real, Rhys had to suppress a shiver as he reached through it and scratched the wooden surface of the door.

  "What the... " A man's voice-not Liam-rumbled from the other side. The trod of footsteps crossed loose boards. The door opened, and Rhys willed his illusionary Darkling to charge through the gap.

  And it worked, he was surprised to notice. Or rather, it had the effect he desired. The man who opened the door cried out and fell back in fright. Liam and his companions cursed and dove towards the nearest exits as the shadowy creation swelled to fill the room. Moth screamed in terror as the men ran like rats for the window and the door. Rhys barely stepped aside before Liam and one other barreled through and thundered down the hall, shouting for help.

  Rhys quickly stepped into the chamber, resisting the urge to retch when he smelled the vile odors within.

  "Moth, it's me," he said and rushed into the corner where she cowered and struggled. Liam had bound her at ankles and wrists. She jerked in fright when Rhys touched her. "Moth, please, I've come to help you..."

  She stopped struggling and looked at him in disbelief as he drew his small dagger and cut her bonds. Her arms went around his neck as he pulled her to her feet.

  "Be grateful later," he chided, working himself free of her grasp and pushing his dagger back into its sheath. "We must hurry before Liam gets his tripes back..."

  Too late. Rhys could hear the clatter of heels on the stairs. He knew he could not open his spell gate swiftly enough. And when Liam's huge bulk filled the doorway, a torch in one hand, the need to escape became all the more apparent.

  Blessed Brother, what should I do? Rhys thought.

  Moth made that decision for him.
She seized Rhys' arm and tugged him towards the window. "Come on!" she cried.

  Liam roared, "I'll kill you for this, healer!" And charged across the floor.

  Moth was already half out the window when Liam grabbed Rhys by the shoulder. The torch came arcing through the air, aimed at Rhys' head. Instinctively, he threw up a hand and shouted, "Adhar clach!" The air hardened into a shield, and the torch bounced off that invisible surface, splattering fire and oily bits mere inches from his face. Bits of flame were thrown into the reeds, which took fire.

  "Come on," Moth practically screamed.

  She pulled Rhys out the window. Liam bellowed in rage. The loose shingles of the roof beneath Rhys' feet slanted more sharply than he liked. Moth ran down it as though crossing a flat plain. Rhys was less graceful, and he lost his footing as he followed the girl. He sat down hard and slid to the bottom, grateful for the large chimney that kept him from going over the edge. He didn't think he could have spoken a levitation spell in time to save himself otherwise.

  Moth had already shifted directions. She seemed to know where she was going. Rhys followed and hoped it would lead them to some place flat and safe where he could open a gate. A quick glance back over his shoulder revealed smoke billowing out of the window of the ramshackle inn. Flames were eating their way through the higher portions of the roof. Blessed Brother, no! Men and women surged out of every opening like rats fleeing a flooded bilge. And Liam squeezed his ox-like bulk through the window in mad pursuit of the healer and the girl.

  From the streets, a hue and cry arose. Folks gathered buckets, running for the puddles and the ponds, and even heaving the wet mud itself in a desperate attempt to keep the fire from spreading to their own homes. Blessed Brother, I should conjure water to assist them. But that would mean stopping, and Liam was coming too hard and fast on Rhys' heels to risk it. Guilt rose, and Rhys half-heartedly pushed it aside, and promised to return to help those in need as he fled.

  Moth skittered to a halt, looking over an edge. Rhys stopped beside her and realized there was no place to go except down into the river. It looked too murky and shallow to be safe. Moth hesitated only a moment, then shouted, "Come on!" as she leapt from the edge. Rhys watched in horror as she hit the surface and sank below. Panic filled him when she did not emerge right away.

  But he had no time to wonder if she had hit the bottom or drowned. A tremendous roar of rage sounded at his back. He had barely turned before a huge body slammed into his own. Hands grappled for his throat. All Rhys was aware of was the dizzying moment of being airborne, and of drawing one final breath, before he slammed the surface of the water on his back. Pain lashed every nerve as he sank under the surface, pushed down by Liam's greater weight. Rhys beat fists against the man, his own lungs screaming for air. He kicked at Liam as well, barely able to make out the big man's enraged features in the murky depths where their thrashing stirred the silt.

  Liam refused to let go. That murder was his only intention could not be denied. But Rhys did not want to die, not this way. Brother forgive me, he thought as be drew his short dagger and plunged it into the man's side. Liam jerked in pain, and that was enough for Rhys to break free. Limbs beating the water, the healer surfaced and drew a breath of air.

  By now, the embankment was lined with onlookers. A few motioned towards something on down the way. Rhys swam to the nearest dock, grabbed on and turned. Draped in his old shirt, a familiar shape floated face down on the surface of the river, "Moth!" he screamed in agony and plunged back into the water. He swam fast as he was able, seizing her and flipping her over on her back so he could drag her to the shore. Several hands helped them from the river. Moth lay motionless on the creaking, damp boards.

  "Oh Brother, no," he whispered and touched her throat to seek a pulse. But he shivered hard from the chill of the river and the wind, and she was so cold. "Moth, please, open your eyes... please..."

  My fault! Rhys closed his eyes as remorse welled in his chest. I should have taken her to the Temple last night. Instead, he had allowed his jealousy of her gift to prevail, and now, he did not possess the power to heal her.

  "Hey, she ain't streaming, young sir," one of the onlookers said. "Give her a shake."

  Rhys opened his eyes again in and blinked as his thoughts rapidly cleared. Not streaming meant there was no water in her lungs ... He lifted her, shook her, patted her face.

  "Moth," he said. "Moth, please, wake up. Open your eyes, child..."

  She stirred and coughed and moaned in his arms, and her eyes fluttered opened. Blearily, she looked up at him and muttered, "I feel sick..."

  Rhys was torn between joyous laughter and serious contemplation of what she meant. Then several of the men hauled a bulk out of the water. Liam stumbled when he tried to stand, then clutched his side where blood and water mixed. He sank to the boards and moaned. His face was white with pain and shock.

  Moth looked at Liam, then at Rhys.

  "What must I do?" she asked.

  Part of Rhys thought that Liam deserved to die of his wound. That Broken Wall and its poor denizens would be better off without this cruel bully in their midst. But that was not what the healers had taught him. Even as a child, when Rhys cursed the Haxons for stealing his parents' lives, Sister Helena would chide his angry words with her own. 'All life, no matter how lowly or disdainful, is precious to the Blessed Brother whose will we serve with our hearts and our vows...' Now, it occurred to Rhys that perhaps his prayers for the healer's sacred touch had not been answered because in his heart, he still had much to learn about forgiveness. Such a precious gift did not belong in the hands of one who thought ill of others...

  Oh, Blessed Brother, now I see that I have a place, even without your gift. I belong here in Broken Wall, ministering to the poor to the best of my humble ability.

  Moth, however, did not belong in this place. She belonged in the Temple of Diancecht where she could be trained to use her gift that it might truly benefit those in need...

  He sighed and cupped Moth's chin in one hand, and offered her a wistful smile of reassurance. "You must do whatever the Brother wills," he said.

  Rhys helped her over to Liam's side. The big man watched both of them, wary as a fox, unable to hide his fear from those who surrounded them.

  "We're going to heal you," Rhys said, and with skilled hands, he pulled back the torn clothing to expose the wound. At his instructions, the locals brought clean water with which to wash the injury. Then Rhys guided Moth's hands to the wound, and told her how to pray for Diancecht's bounty.

  Moments passed, and Rhys marveled that no one moved or even drew a breath before Moth was done. And even Liam stayed where he was, staring dumfounded at the scar that now graced his ribs.

  Moth looked tired but relieved as Rhys quietly helped her to her feet and led her away from the river and its denizens. No one stopped them when Rhys opened a spell gate and took Moth to the Temple of Diancecht where she rightfully belonged.

  THE DOCK TO HEAVEN

  L.E. Modesitt, Jr.

  Infosnark. That's me. Mom called me Mario. Dockers call me Snark 'cause if there's info to be found without tags, no one does it better than me. Highport's a big place. Ships come from everywhere-Old Earth, Xianth, Clarkburg, Alpha Felini, Sansalibre, D'Athoud, Melinia. They got ships, and they come to Highport 'cause it's the only way you get to Heaven. Angels insist it's got to be that way. Least, that's what Lorico told me. He may look diablo, but never piloted me wrong.

  Twodays are slow. Always have been. Slow isn't always bad, but it's fastbeam to trouble. Times busy, people swirling around, the patrollers don't bother if they see you, so long as you're not doing something brightflared wrong. Slow times, they look deeper. For us snarks, their looking deeper isn't good.

  Was coming back from the farwest concourse lines on the low guideway. Slower, but cheaper. Farwest's mostly Sandurco space. Was wearing the greensilver dumper suit and scanner access pins. Lorico does 'em well, and they'll take three four scans before
they flare red. Costs a cred for each pin, but you can't snark if you don't know where the weak points are. Screens and channels don't show everything. Even if they do, so much noise you can't find the signal.

  Sandurco had space on the Elept to Purgatory. Eight full cubes. Problem was that the space was reserved for a transfer. Iron bound, cold steel contract. Inbound was from Xianth. Inbound wouldn't make transfer before the Elept needed to translate. But Sandurco was bound not to make known the space was available. That's where I came in. Needed to find an instalast cargo, have it ready to upload just before translation. Most of the creds would go to Sandurco and the shipper, but be a small shower of creds-and favors-for me.

  Came out of the scangates, under the high ceilings that show the images of Heaven sky, blue with clouds sculpted into cities, and turned to the guideway. Saw something below the entrygate, off to the right. Dark and shiny. Hard. Wanted to run, 'cause it just screamed creds. Didn't. Ambled, like always, looking around, being the scrounge most take me for. Easier that way. Most at Highport don't know what I do. Suits me fine.

  Jumped down and scooped it up. Slipped it inside the greensilver dumper jacket, and jumped back up on the strip beside the guideway, flashing a cred token.

  Hadn't taken two steps when Saalmo was on me. Sleaziest patroller on the west end.

  "What you got there, Snark?"

  "Cred token. Some angel dropped it. Didn't want to get dirty." Lied, of course. Nowhere in the Port's dirty. Outside, on the ramps, or in town, that was dirt. One reason why I tried to stay inside as much as I could.

  "You sure?" Saalmo oozed more slideless than a guideway mech.

  Flashed the cred token at him, close enough for him to see, but not grab. Real Angel token. Gotten it along with my fifty creds from Derdri a stan earlier for tipping her to a half cube on the Cherabims' Celestria, outbound to Clarkburg. Would have been a hundred for an inbound.

  "You got fast fingers, Snark. Thought what you got was darker, bigger."